


Don't Fear the Creeper

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Nerd Sam, Punk Castiel, Sam Has a Fear of Clowns, Shy Sam, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:38:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5213054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s never felt more like Indiana Jones in the Last Crusade: Clowns, why did it have to be clowns? As if being dropped off at Plucky Pennywhistle’s while Dean picked up chicks one too many times wasn’t scarring enough, a complete stranger in an It mask has to be chasing him through a crop field—</p><p>Oh God, they’re chasing him.</p><p>Or the one where Sam is oblivious and Castiel isn't the most subtle person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Fear the Creeper

“How’re you doing over there, Sammy?”

“Spectacu-la-cular,” he breathes, smoke pillowing out of his nose like a steam vaporizer. Gabe and the gang chuckle in tandem, a cacophony of rich, throaty sounds that makes Sam chuckle too. Cacophony, he thinks. That _sounds_ like a sound. He dissects each syllable like a biology assignment. “ _Ca-co-pho-neeee…”_

It isn’t until he looks up and sees Castiel Novak staring at him through amused crystalline blue eyes. Castiel is a trademark bad boy—loud, rebellious, and as cancerous as the contraband he and his cousin Gabe passed around like a peace pipe at these “bonding experiences”—at least to Sam, who was nowhere near as wielded in badassery as he.

Dean calls him a pansy. Dean can thrust a pork loin up his ass.

A howling wind combs through the cornfields as Ruby beckons his attention: “Hey Sam.”

“That’s me.”

“You ever had a _p-dog?”_

“No,” Sam replies before waving a naysaying finger, “but I’ve had to pee in down dog.”

The group erupts into laughter again. Sam looks briefly to Cas, whose lip ring is bobbing.

“What about a juice joint?” Nick asks.

“You guys _do_ know ‘m the one haulin’ his loopy ass home, right?”

“Oh, right. Because you’re _such a hero,_ Benny Boy,” chimes Cole. “You’re just butt-buddies with his brother.”

“Like you’re the poster boy for wholesome goodness, Trenton. When do you ship out, in a week? Two weeks? I’m sure your recruiter will commemorate you on the fact that you’re more loaded than that gun you carry.”

Castiel sidesteps Sam and disappears into the thick of the farmland without another word. Sam just sits there, twiddling his fingers and grinding down a smirk. Sam’s the type to accept the paddle on his ass and move on, but seeing that first-degree slap on an unsuspecting but well-deserved victim? Priceless. The humiliation on Cole’s face is as white as the half-eaten sugar cookie suspending in the salt and pepper sky.

The stick, now pinkie-sized and flaking firemites only occasionally, gets passed back to Sam. Sam surveys the object like it holds his scholarship to Stanford. Maybe it does. “No, I’m good.”

Ruby’s girlfriend gapes at him. “What? You’re too good for us now?”

Gabe leans forward. “Anna.”

“You think because you’re 14 going on 40 you’re hot shit?”

“Anna—”

Anna perseveres, long red hair slicing through the air like a whip, “You Winchesters think you’re _so_ fucking smart just because you can go behind people’s backs and sleep with whoever you want whenever you want. You and your self-proclaimed hot shit brother can stick your pathetic, little—”

Before Anna can finish her diagnosis, a person in a full-on clown mask rips through the crops, screaming. Granted most of them are balls-to-the-walls high, the group is only semi-startled (that is, if you don’t count masochistic Nick, who’s close to popping out his spleen from laughing).

Sam isn’t that fortunate. Pulse running wild, he hits the ground running. He’s after something, _anything_ but clowns. He’s never felt more like Indiana Jones in the Last Crusade: Clowns, why did it have to be clowns? As if being dropped off at Plucky Pennywhistle’s while Dean picked up chicks one too many times wasn’t scarring enough, a complete stranger in an _It_ mask has to be chasing him through a crop field—

Oh God, they’re _chasing him._

Just when he thinks he loses them, there’s a clammy hand clasping his shoulder. Sam’s sobbing at this point, shaken by fear. He’s too exhausted to scream, but too terrified to turn around until he hears his name, softer than it’s ever been spoken, “Sam, Sam! Sam, please look at me.”

He knows that voice. He turns around, meeting the blue eyes of—“C-Cas?”

“Yeah, hey,” he says, winded. Both hands on his shoulders now, saturating the skin beneath his purple Henley with warmth like he’s never known before. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to w-w-what, send me to my _g-grave_?” he blasphemes, shrugging him off. Cas draws his lip ring into his mouth. Aside from his long, bleached bangs spilling over his creased forehead and the slight red coating his cheeks, he looks damn good and it’s not fair. “How are you any better than—?”

“Iwastryingtoscarethem.”

Sam has to strain his ears because he obviously didn’t hear that right. “What?”

“They were talking crap about you,” Cas replies, like it’s the most validated claim.

“It’s not _your_ job to look after me, I’m—”

“Fourteen going on forty, I know.”

“I was going to say perfectly competent,” Sam justifies, baffled by his audacity. “I hate clowns.”

Cas chuckles, “I gathered that much.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you care?” Sam asks, nonplussed.

If this were his Chemistry class, he’d have Castiel under a microscope, probing his every move with heavy scrutiny. He and Cas knew each other, sure, but they were never exclusive—as friends or as… you know. In fact, tonight was the first time they’ve seen each other in focus.

Cas lifts a painted brow. “You know, Anna may have a point. You Winchesters are pretty dense.”

“Excuse me?”

“I _like you_ , you ass,” he responds, lips curving into a smile. They’re really nice lips.

Sam throws his head back as another gust of wind wills him forward. “You… you do?”

“Well I _certainly_ wouldn’t go to the trouble of stealing my cousin’s clown mask if I didn’t want to woo you,” Cas replies sternly, earning an unmanly giggle from Sam. He still can’t fathom someone as bold and beautiful as Cas being into someone as bland an overall _blah_ as Sam. Sam got A’s, Cas got _laid._

So when Castiel reaches for his hand and his fingers intertwine with his, goosebumps dance along his skin. He’s about to ask if he wants to ditch the Scream Queenswhen something gets pulled over his head: It’s the dreaded clown mask. Sam recoils despite himself. “There, now you’ve faced your fear.”

“Not quite,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses Cas.

 


End file.
